


The Haunting Blue

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Firefly, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, badly anglicised Chinese swearing?, loads of complications
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Reynolds wakes up in a world that is not his own. He remembers who he is-- but everyone else is convinced that he's just another Scotland Yard detective who's finally cracked under the pressure. Could they be right? Or is it all just a painfully realistic dream?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Wash? What the hell are you doing to my ship?”

At the helm, the pilot had abandoned his navigation equipment in favour of leaning over the controls and peering out into the starry expanse ahead of them.

Mal fought the urge to roll his eyes. His hand was dripping blood; he’d cut himself on his own razor when the ship lurched sideways. “What, d’ya see a pretty bird or something? And where--” he turned to the open door “--the hell is my ship’s damn medic!” 

“You oughta take a look at this, Captain,” was the faint, amazed reply. 

Mal took a deep breath before he marched up to the cockpit windows. “All I see is black. An’ don’t get me wrong, that’s a thing a beauty. But it ain’t all that different from what we see every day. It certainly don’t make my ship--” 

Wash cut him off by pointing up--up to the very edge of the glass overhead. A flicker of light danced just out of sight--like an aurora.

But auroras and light shows didn’t happen in space. 

Mal pursed his lips. “There’s a reason you’re not just turning my girl around so’s we can actually see what’s going on up there, right?”

“Steering’s out,” Wash answered airily, pulling the wheel hard to the left. Serenity didn’t answer. “Nav, com-- everything is.” 

“But all the lights are on. Some of ‘em are green.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Wash sat down, but kept his eyes on the flares--transfixed with whatever was happening just above their ship.

“Are you moonbrained now? Wash, this is-- Zoë!” Mal slammed his good hand down on the com to radio his first lieutenant before he remembered what his pilot had said about everything having been disabled. “ZOË!” he hollered at the open gangway. “Your husband’s lost his gorram head up here! Jen mei nai-shing duh fwo-tzoo, where the hell are my crew?”

“Somebody better get their ass up here!” He shouted as marched past Serenity’s control units and into the open space under the long, sloping windows to get a better look. A deluge of colour splashed against the grating as he ducked and twisted, angling his head to get a better look at his so-called sky. 

They say when a man gazes long into the Abyss, that same Abyss stares right the hell back into him. 

Mal looked up, the top of his head pressed against the window as he stared up into the brilliant, glittering abyss overhead. Colours he’d never seen before--that he’d never even imagined--leapt out at him. Some danced like fire, some jumped from point to point like lightning, and some just stayed there all stagnant like, watching him. And behind it all, buried deep in that bright tear in the big, black universe, was the bluest blue there’d ever been. 

It was sky blue. Not the skies he’d seen, not his sky; it was nothing that had ever existed in any world he’d known. It was the original blue -- the blue that had been there at the birth of everything.

And that blue had his ship by her shiny tail. Serenity bucked, and Mal tipped sideways. He tried to catch himself, to steady himself on the windows, but his bleeding hand only slid along the warm glass. Not warm -- hot. Blazing hot -- hot enough to make the red streak he’d left as he was tossed to the ground sizzle and pop like oil in a pan. It flashed orange, yellow, green -- every colour surrounded him, and his ship, and pulled them helplessly into that giant rip in the very fabric of space.

And then everything went dark.


	2. Brookwood Cemetery

Just once-- just gorram once, he wished they could get into some kind of trouble that didn’t end with a headache. Or a backache, or an arm ache, or-- Mal winced as he struggled and failed to sit up-- a lung ache. He rolled onto his side, wheezing and coughing as his chest slowly re-inflated. His throat felt scorched; actually, his entire body felt like he’d been passed through an oven, and come out burnt, but toasty on the other side. 

And when he first opened his eyes, he could swear the inside of his skull was pretty go tsao de crispy, too. He regretted every blink, but he couldn’t just lay back down -- he had to know what happened-- what in hellfire had just happened to him, to his ship, and to his crew. 

There was nothing else for it. He closed his eyes tight, counted to three, and then opened them as wide as they’d go. The light burned-- actually fried his vision for a moment, but he refused to give in to the urge to shut them again. The wide, white space in front of him slowly melted to green and brown, the world stopped spinning, and eventually everything started to look like something familiar, even if he was sure it was nothing he’d ever seen before.

He was planet-side. He was on his behind in a big, grassy lawn, surrounded by little statues. Cute little statues, some of them -- bit creepy, too, but Serenity was nowhere to be seen. Not her, not Wash -- nothing but that weirdly deep green grass, rows and rows of creepy-but-cute obelisks, and-- his mind went blank as he looked up to the sky. 

It was blue -- that same, haunting blue.

“Tai-kong suo-yo duh shing-chiou sai-jin wuh duh pee-goo.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with Chinese, detective.”

Mal twisted sharply-- and swore again as every muscle in his body stretched unpleasantly. “Everybody knows Chinese, Doc. What kinda freaky head trauma d’you get yourself into?” Mal’s stomach turned, and his vision swam. “What kinda-- freaky--” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, as bile came rocketing up, out of his mouth. 

“In China, perhaps,” the other man answered, taking a subtle step to the side. Italian leather loafers and sick did not mix well. 

“Well-- …would you cut the crap and tell me what happened? My lungs are--” Mal dry-heaved, “--on fire.” Sitting up and turning around had not been his best decision that day.

“That does happen when one smokes,” came the curt reply.

Mal stared. “I ain’t a gorram--” Too much-- it was too much to process in one sitting. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and internally screamed at his insides to stop doing that stupid flippy-floppy thing they were so keen on.

The man in the very fine suit -- his ship’s young medic -- watched him curiously. After several minutes of slow, laborious breathing and what seemed to be a very complicated mental struggle, Mal looked up at him.

“One-- where the hell are we? Two-- where the hell is my ship? Three-- why the hell are you talking like that? I know Badger’s an ass, but seems to me it goes against your doctor-y code to steal his tongue. And--” he paused to count, but quickly gave up “--is this some kinda joke? Because I really ain’t seein’ the humour.”

The man didn’t answer at first, but Mal could’ve sworn he saw him smile. “Fascinating,” he murmured quietly.

“So help me, I will--”

“I’m not a doctor.”

Mal blinked.

“I am not a doctor, Detective Inspector. I’m in government. My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

Mal’s mouth was hanging open slightly. 

“You are in Surrey, England. I’m afraid I don’t know the status of your... ship? And if you’re referring to my accent, I think you’ll find that quite a lot of people here speak like this. Though I believe badgers are not in any way responsible. Though, it’s possible that would be an interesting joke... if one enjoyed that kind of thing.”

There was a long silence. Mal stared at Mycroft. Mycroft stared back.

“Dr. Tam if I could get up off this here grass, I would punch you in the gorram face just for the hell of it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mycroft answered. 

Mal flopped onto his back again and rubbed his eyes. His right hand stung-- he’d forgotten all about the cut on his palm, but as he looked, all he could see was a long, thin scar, as if it was an old wound that’d been cauterised a long time ago. 

“Yes, I’m still quite grateful to you for that, you know.” Mycroft casually examined the tip of an umbrella that he’d been leaning on as he spoke.

Mal side-eyed him. “Excuse me?”

“For that cut-- or rather, for saving my sister.”

“River? Great. Just what this crazy ass dream world needs. Another headcase.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly as he hung his umbrella in the crook of his arm. “Forgive me, detective, but I must ask... do you know who you are?”

“I’d wager no, since you think you’re Alliance, and you keep calling me detective. My name is Malcolm Reynolds, captain of Firefly-class ship, Serenity. We were four days off Boros with legitimate business dealings in mind.” He stared out at the tree line. Roads and cars were beginning to take shape just beyond the lawn he’d found himself in. “But I reckon we done something wrong, and now this is some kinda... Alliance camp, like the one your sister was in. For mind tricks, and the like.”

“This is no trick... captain?” The corners of Mycroft’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. He’d seen many a man gone mad hallucinating his fantasies -- but never quite so descriptively. 

Mal snorted. “Yes, captain, you doe-eyed monkey. And just who the hell d’you think I am?”

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, of New Scotland Yard.”

Mal sighed. “Well, detectives are cool, I guess. At least I’m not a murderer.”

“No. Luckily you’re quite good at catching them. With... some help from my sister, of course."

“River and I fight crime? Well, ain’t that neat.”

“Sherlock.”

“What’s that?”

“My sister. Her name is Sherlock.”

“Shun-sheng dug gao-wahn, Sherlock? Mycroft? What planet are you people from that it’s legal to give kids such freaky names?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Earth, detective. This is planet Earth. And I do believe it would be in your best interests to come back to it now.”

Mal laughed outright at that. “Earth-that-was, eh? Well,” he gave his companion a sharp, sarcastic smile before shifting a few feet away. “That’s a great joke, really-- and by that, I mean this is a shitty dream, my friend. But, it’s been, y’know. Nice talkin’ to ya like this and all. And I’ll... well, I’ll see you on the other side, I guess.”

Stretching out his legs, Mal gave Mycroft a brief wave, closed his eyes, and tried to will himself back to sleep. 

Mycroft calmly pulled out his phone. “Yes, I found him.” Mal twitched, and inclined his head just enough to listen in. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What did you give him?...Well, someone has. I’m beginning to think I’ll need a straight jacket just to get him out of here. Have you been teaching him Mandarin?”

Mal struggled to keep his mouth shut. 

“I think he may punch me. I’ll bring him if you meet us at his flat.”

Mal sat bolt upright -- so much for sleeping. “Now wait just a minute,” he interrupted. 

“He’s up again. I’ll get him to the car, one way or another. ...one hour, Sherlock.” Mycroft made a face as he hung up, and pocketed his phone. “I suppose asking you to come with me isn’t going to work?”

“I think that depends on where we’re goin’.” 

“Your home in London.”

“I ain’t from London.”

“No, you’re originally from Serenity, Oklahoma, just north of the Texas border.” Mycroft brushed a bit of dirt from his shoulder. “But you currently reside in London, England-- you have for quite some time-- and I’m tasked with bringing you back.”

“Oklahoosa? What the hell is England?”

Mycroft smirked. “Shall we?” A dark sedan waited on the road some yards off. It was an ominous sight, with tinted windows, and Mal wasn’t exactly in the mood to walk into anymore trouble than he was already in. 

“I’d rather take a horse, if you’ve got one.”

“Yes, I rather think you would. Unfortunately, this is the 21st century, and horses as civilian transport are a bit hard to come by.”

“Could you just--” Mal held up his hand. “Just stop talking. You’re giving me a headache.”

Mycroft indicated the car waiting for them. “Come with me, and I shall.”

He didn’t want to. Honestly, he wanted to curl up in a little ball and pass out-- and wake up in his own bed, on his own gorram ship. He’d had enough of this crazy Earth-that-was dream, where the Doc was Alliance, and his sister had a weird name, and he was a detective. He was ready for all of it to be over. 

And maybe, the worn-out, failing logic of his subconscious suggested, if he went with Simon-- err, Mycroft, and played along, it’d come to an end that much sooner. 

Mal hung his head. “Deal,” he answered, holding out his hand. They shook on it, and Mycroft helped him off the ground. He was still sore as hell-- his entire body ached, and his limbs were heavy. If this was a dream, it was a shitty one -- the pain was pretty damn realistic for something that was supposed to be happening inside his own head. Even getting to the car wasn’t easy. He had to lean heavily on the so-called government official as he limped across the grass, but if Mycroft was bothered by it, he didn’t mention it. He didn’t say a single thing as he took as much of Mal’s weight as he could and half-dragged his sorry hide to the road.


	3. Shoreditch

He suspected that -- despite Mycroft’s insistence that his sister’s name was in fact Sherlock, that it was the name on her birth certificate, and that he could actually prove it -- the person waiting for him back at his apartment was River. And he was right.

She was sprawled on an old green sofa, her toes pointed in the air, and her hair cascading off the end to touch the floor. Some things didn’t change.

“What happened to you?” She asked, sounding just as judgemental as ever.

Mal would have shrugged if could. Instead, he collapsed onto the couch as she rolled out of the way. “Star went supernova? Got dragged through the coronasphere? Maybe a gash in the space... time thingy. I donno. It’s been a long day.”

Mycroft answered, “Probably on a bender,” as he fixed the creases in suit. Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“Why’d you go out to Brookwood?”

Mal looked from the woman leaning over him, to the man at the door. They were Simon and River Tam -- two genius kids that he’d picked up on Persephone. One was his ship’s medic, the other -- well, she was just an interesting thing to have around on a good day. 

River’s hair fell in his face as she tried to do a handstand on the arm of the sofa. “Stop that before you f--” She laughed as she toppled over, landing on him. Mycroft winced. Mal groaned, his knuckles going white as he clutched the edge of the sofa in his agony.

River rolled off and pirouetted in the middle of his living room. 

“Ow,” was all Mal could say.

Mycroft glanced at his phone. 

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side. “Defence Minister?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He replied, as he opened the door. “Call an ambulance if he dies.” Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft left.

In a fraction of a second, she was back at the end of the sofa, staring at Mal like an inquisitive cat. “He says you’ve been drugged.”

Mal sighed. Maybe he had been? That’d be a nice explanation. “Probably have.”

“You don’t look drugged.”

“I suppose you’d know.” Sherlock blinked. “Gorram... come here -- sit.” He pointed to the coffee table next to him. Sherlock waltzed over, stepped up onto the table, and then sunk down, with her legs gracefully folded underneath her. He’d never understood how she managed to do that -- but he had bigger questions than her flexibility to deal with.

He tried to it up, realised it was a lost cause, and just turned his head towards her. “Now, tell me... about me.”  
She almost smiled. “Well, you’re definitely not Lestrade.”

An overwhelming sense of relief flooded through him. “Finally! Hell’s bells, I thought I was gonna have to play this charade all damn day. But how d’you know?”

“Because he knows better than to ask me for useless personal information.”

Mal covered his face with both hands. “Well, can’t be all that different,” he added after a moment of silence. “You and your brother are still cheeky brats.”

“I believe that’s a fundamental law of the universe.”

“Shiny.”

“What is?”

Mal dropped his hands. “What?”

“What’s shiny?”

He sighed. 

Nothing was shiny. Absolutely nothing, because the fact of the matter was, either this was a nightmare, or his life had just taken a very sour turn. Nothing made sense to him; everything in this world was too bright and too colourful. The people were wrong -- he was wrong! And he didn’t like it. He wanted his real self back, with his real life, and his real ship. He wanted his crew -- his Simon, his River, and his-- his face went white.

“You look like you’re going to be ill.”

“Zoë.”

“What?”

He forced himself to sit up. “If you’re here, and your brother’s here, then Zoë’s gotta be here, too. She’ll understand-- she always understands. She’s my first mate. She gets me.”

Sherlock’s expression had gone from intrigued to disgruntled.

“You know where she is, don’t you? C’mon, Riv...lock. Where is she?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re looking for Sergeant Donovan.”

“Sergeant?”

Sherlock was pouting. “Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. She’s your second-in-command at the office, and you’re... friends or something,” she finished disdainfully. 

“Is everybody in this craphill ‘verse a detective?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “But only one of us is any good at it.”

Mal pursed his lips. 

“You never answered my question.”

“What question? How can I get in touch with Zoë? D’you have a … radio or something?”

“Why were you out at Brookwood Cemetery?”

“Broowhats?”

“Where my brother found you.”

Mal made an exasperated noise. “D’you think I know? I been ripped outta my sky, chucked onto a planet that ain’t even on any a my maps. This whole gorram place isn’t even supposed to exist anymore. I got no ship, no crew, no sense because all a you think I’m mush in the brainpan.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what any a this stuff is -- who I am, even. It’s all a damn mess to me, and no-- I ain’t got a single notion about how I wound up wherever the hell I was. For all I know, your Alliance brother dragged me out there to shoot me in the head, changed his mind, and drugged me instead.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“That’s-- great. Just great.”

“What’s Alliance?”

“The government.”

“And you don’t like them?”

“Not as such. Just don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em.”

“Lestrade is a policeman.”

“Well, I ain’t Lestrade.”

“Donovan will think you are.”

“Not if she’s really my first mate.”

Sherlock folded her arms across her chest. “You make it sound like you were some kind of pirate.”

“Maybe I was a bit.”

Sherlock stood up abruptly, knocking a large disc off the table as she paced to the opposite side of the room. “Your right trouser pocket.” 

“‘Scuse me?” 

She kept her back to him. “Check the right pocket of your pants,” she repeated, exaggerating the word pants in a way that made Mal wonder if there was something funny about it -- something he didn’t quite get.

He looked down, and realised for the first time that-- “For the love of-- these ain’t even my clothes!” But he shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small, black device. “What is it?”

“Some things never change,” Sherlock sighed irritably. She waltzed over and snatched the mobile phone from his hands. Her hands navigated the little screen faster than his eyes could register, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps this was the future, rather than the long distant past. Maybe he was on Earth 2.0, rather than Earth-that-was. 

“Greg is indisposed. This is Sherlock Holmes.” 

‘Greg?’ Mal mouthed. Sherlock waved her hand at him dismissively.

“He’d like for you to come over as soon as possible.” Mal motioned for the phone; Sherlock kicked him. “It’s somewhat important -- probably a six. No, I can’t put him on -- just drop whatever useless thing it is you’re doing, and get over here.” She hung up abruptly before the woman on the other end of the line could retaliate.

“Well, that was a bit ornery,” Mal remarked, rubbing his leg.

“I abhor ineffective people,” Sherlock answered, handing the phone back.

“Careful now, that’s my first mate you’re talking about.” 

“You don’t even know her!” 

“She’s still my gorram first mate!” 

Sherlock glared. “I’ll leave you to fend for yourself then?” 

“Fine! Wait-- …no! D’you believe me?” 

“No.”

“But you said--” 

“I know what I said,” Sherlock snapped. 

“You are gonna drive me out of my mind, girl.” 

Sherlock made a face and walked towards the door. Mal opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped at a little hall closet before he made an ass of himself begging her to stay. Instead, she pulled the door open and grabbed an old leather jacket. “This is mine,” she added nonchalantly, pulling it on.

“Right.” It was only about four sizes too big for her-- but he’d been through so much that day that he just didn’t care to question it. Rivlock could be a weird little thing if she wanted to, as long as she believed that he wasn’t the man who really lived in this house.

It left a strange, tense feeling all the way down in his bones when he looked around. Everything seemed like it should be familiar, but he knew without a doubt that he’d never seen any of it before. Hell, he didn’t even know what half of it was. There was a television screen -- or what looked like one -- and a square box with an arm thing. It was a nice place; he might’ve liked it if it hadn’t been a part of his hellish, little nightmare. 

He leaned back against the couch. Thinking about situation was making his stomach roll again. “So, you’re a detective?” He asked, trying to sound casual. 

“Consulting detective.” 

“Shuh muh?” 

Sherlock turned to face him. “I never taught you that.” 

“Taught me what?”

She stared at him for a moment, and even though she was half his size, Mal felt like she was dissecting him slowly with her eyes. “Shuh muh,” she repeated. “It’s Mandarin.” 

“Yeah, everybody speaks it.” 

“Maybe--” Mal cut her off.

“Don’t,” he closed his eyes. “Don’t say ‘Maybe in China.’” Sherlock pouted. “If it’s only the people in China, how do you know it?” 

Sherlock flounced over to an armchair and flopped down. “We learned it in school.”

Mal nodded. “Yeah, exactly. So did I.” 

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. “We didn’t go to the same school.” 

“Well, I reckon that’s obvious,” Mal muttered.

Sherlock wrapped herself up in what Mal suspected was this detective fellow’s coat and closed her eyes. He wanted her to keep talking, to keep explaining what was happening so he wouldn’t feel quite so out-of-place in this new world. But the sight of her snuggled up with her toes peeking out from underneath his coat-- that other guy’s coat, rather, was enough to make him sleepy as well. It’d been a hell of a day, after all. He might’ve lost his gorram mind for all he knew. Getting a little shut eye didn’t seem like a bad idea.

He keeled over, grabbed a cushion and fluffed it up, and stuffed it under his head. With some luck -- and most days, he was a fairly lucky man -- everything would sort itself out when he woke up. 

Or so he hoped.


	4. Shoreditch

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that nothing had changed an hour later. Someone was banging on the door, and that just didn’t make any sense. If they’d needed him -- if they’d really wanted his attention, somebody would’ve buzzed him on the com, or just yelled down the ladder. Or thrown something. Or just sent Jayne-- he shuddered at the thought of waking up to Jayne’s face.

His gorram dream was bad enough as it was.

He opened his eyes and groaned, because it was the same stupid problem all over again. His head was splitting, his body was sore, his eyes burned. Everything was too fucking bright, and no matter how hard he stared at any given colour, nothing made it any duller. 

The hammering got louder, and this time a voice called out from the hallway. “I swear to God, Greg. If this is a bloody joke, I’ll have that little girl’s head on a stick.” 

Mal glanced at Sherlock. She seemed to be asleep, dozing peacefully underneath that large, leather jacket. How anyone could sleep through the noise, he didn’t know -- but given the devilish little smirk she was wearing, he reckoned it might’ve just been a ruse.

“I’ll get that, then,” he groaned, pushing himself up off the sofa. It was harder than he cared to admit, and he blamed every bit of it on the couch itself. It was too damn comfortable, too squishy, and too low to the ground. Like everything else, it just felt a little bit off in all the most important and irritating ways. 

He shuffled to the little hallway, opened the door, and stared. There was Zoë -- his Zoë! -- looking for all the worlds like some kinda Ariel-based business tycoon. She was posh, and all manner of classy, but there was no gun at her hip and no boots on her feet. Those damned details! She mighta looked real good, but everything about her -- just like the apartment -- felt downright unnatural.

But she didn’t give him a chance to express those feelings. She brushed past him, eyed Sherlock sleeping in the armchair, and turned to face him. “Just what the hell is going on?” She spoke in the same funny way that Mycroft and Sherlock did. Mal winced.

And then he made a noise halfway between a sigh and clearing his throat, as he realised she wasn’t messing around. Then again, she never did, really. She always was a serious one. But he wasn’t ready to face up to the absolutely ludicrous truth all over again. Not with Zoë -- because more than anyone, she was too sensible and too clever to believe a lick of it. 

Her mouth got thinner as her anger grew stronger. Mal quickly shut the door and limped like a wounded dog back to the sofa. 

“What happened? You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”

Mal shook his head slowly. “Just high levels of gamma radiation.”

“That had better be a joke, Greg.”

Mal sighed. “I’m not--”

Sherlock -- now plainly awake -- interrupted. “He’s not Greg.”

Sally put her hands on her hips. 

“I’m not,” Mal repeated, even though it was obvious she didn’t buy it. “My name is Captain Malcolm Reynolds.” The ‘captain’ only made it sound even more ridiculous -- but he felt a might naked without it. Some things mattered more than dignity.

There was a long, awkward silence while Sally glared at him. When she finally spoke, the tone of her voice was quiet, and extremely dangerous (but when wasn’t it, really?) “Are you both very high?”

“Ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng, I hope so.” Sherlock giggled into the lapel of the jacket. 

Sally didn’t seem to think it was quite so funny. “If you’re taking the piss...”

“If I what?”

Sherlock yawned and stretched her legs. “He’s not.”

“I’m not what?”

Sally’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask you, yeah?” She called out to Sherlock.

The younger woman only smiled and rolled over.

Mal ran his hand through his hair. “Am I missing something?”

“Your brain,” Sally answered automatically.

“That--” Mal made an exasperated face. “That is not the first time that’s been said to me by you.” Sally smirked. 

“Look, something real freaky is going on today. Or I’m dreaming. I don’t rightly know yet. What I do know is that the both of you are talkin’ funny, and it’s givin’ me a headache. So why don’t you--” he stopped and pointed at Sally “--have a seat, and you--” he glanced at Sherlock “--stop harassing my First Mate, or whatever it is you’re doing that’s got her so uppity.”

If he’d been expecting them to react to his words like his usual orders, he was sadly mistaken. Sherlock ignored him, and Sally tapped her foot in such a bitterly judgemental way that Mal wondered briefly if he ought to apologise. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But he fought back bravely and gave her his best puppy eyes.

She chucked her keys at his face.

“Hey now!” But she was already walking away. Sally dropped her coat over the back of his sofa and marched purposefully into the next room. “Where ya goin’?” He called after her, staring at the doorway but refusing to leave the safety of the sofa cushions. He could hear the sounds of things being shifted around, like pots and pans in a sink. It stood to reason that she might have walked into a kitchen of some kind -- but he wasn’t very familiar with planet-side accommodations. One too many moons still relied on outdoor fires for their cooking, and he didn’t like to guess, despite what he’d seen, what kind of crazy place this particular planet might be.

“Is she coming back?” He asked, glancing at Sherlock -- who was still cheerfully ignoring him.

Luckily for him, she did come back some time later with a steaming mug in her hands. “Is that tea?” Mal sniffed the air as he dragged himself across the sofa towards her. 

“It’s coffee,” she answered. “And you--” she shoved his feet out of the way and sat down beside him, “--can get your own.”

“Oh, c’mon Zoë.”

“Sally,” she corrected sharply. 

“Yeah, Sally,” he amended -- and hastily apologised before she could dump the entire, boiling cup on him. He wanted to tell her that she was a mite angrier in this world, compared to the one he was familiar with, but something at the back of his brain said that might not have gone over all that well. 

But once she’d had a sip, Sally seemed to relax a bit -- or at least enough to have another go at Mal’s impossible problem. “You keep your mouth shut,” she threatened Sherlock. “And you,” Mal felt his mouth go dry, “you explain to me what you’ve bloody done to yourself. First you didn’t even show up for work, and then I get no less than six text messages from her brother--” The way she phrased it, it seemed like getting a text from Mycroft bordered on a criminal offence. 

Mal didn’t know where to start. He’d gotten into a lot of wacky adventures recently -- some more outright scary than fun, but this took the whole god damn cake, and the neighbouring galaxy to boot. 

But the very worst part was that he was actually beginning to believe the whole damned debacle might not be a dream. Hell, he lived in space! On a spaceship! Interplanetary travel was normal to him. Was it so hard to think that wormholes and the like might be real too? Not that he knew it was a wormhole -- but certainly something just as fishy and nonsensical. 

Sally nudged him with her shoe. “Talk, Greg.”

Correcting her the way she’d corrected him didn’t seem safe with the threat of boiling coffee still standing ominously between them. “I donno where to begin,” he answered.

“The beginning generally works,” Sally mused, taking another sip.

“Hah. You’re funny,” Mal answered sarcastically. Same old Zo...ly.

He brought both hands up to his face and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes as he tried to recollect the events that had led him to that moment. The harder he pushed, the brighter the colours got, but they took him back -- back before he’d woken up in that cemetery, or whatever it was. Before the light storm, and Serenity being pulled into hell. Back before he’d run to the bridge as his baby tossed him around like the bad protein salad he’d had for lunch.

He went back to the point just after breakfast, when he was standing in Serenity’s engine room with Kaylee and Shepherd Book, trying to figure out just why the hell the old girl was wheezing so hard. He should’ve known something was wrong from the start. Kaylee said there was something funny about the motor -- but she couldn’t place it. It was nothing like she’d ever noticed before. Book mentioned hearing that noise, but there was a lot of things that preacherman wasn’t willing to divulge about himself, and where he might’ve heard such a bizarre sound just happened to be one of them.

Mal had thought that was a bit useless, but they had a rendez-vous to make, and no time to lay the old girl out until they could find the bug. 

He made the call to hold course from Boros to Newhope. Straight through lunch, everything was smooth sailing -- except the lunch itself, obviously. They hadn’t been able to take on as many supplies as he’d liked at Boros -- they just didn’t have the funds. Once they’re landed their cargo at Newhope, he and Jayne had a plan to spend a hefty sum on the biggest couple of steaks they could find. Something juicy, and cooked just-- Sally cleared her throat abruptly. 

Mal rubbed his face slowly. He didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d last eaten, and the thought of prime rib was making his mouth water.

Sherlock lobbed one of the plastic discs from the table at him for getting so distracted, and Sally gasped audibly. But Mal ducked, and Sherlock missed, and the disc rolled uselessly away across the wooden floor. “Damnation, woman,” he muttered at Sherlock. “Alright!”

Sally stared -- but her dubious anger had given way to wide-eyed incredulity. 

“Anyway,” Mal went on, taking her face as a sign he should continue. He told them how some of the nav dials started spinning just after his rotten lunch. They’d spin like a top for a minute, come back true, and then go crazy again. It was an intermittent thing -- and infrequent enough that Wash thought he might be able to bring them in sight of the planet with or without them. 

And what choice did they have? Mal hopped down into his bunk.

It wasn’t until Serenity lurched that he knew they were in a real heap of trouble. He’d been in the middle of shaving -- or rather, he’d had a sharp razor in his hand when she tipped sideways real sudden like. Now on his ship -- he explained for them, since they didn’t seem to understand the significance of inertia and objects in space -- shouldn’t have shook like that at all, because of the dampners. But she did -- she downright jumped to the side, and sent him reeling into the wall, and the blade of his razor straight into his hand. 

He held his palm out for them to see the faded wound. That didn’t make any sense -- but comparatively, it really wasn’t the weirdest thing that’d happened to him that day, so he let it go without any fuss.

He explained how he’d run up the ladder as fast as he could, slipping in a hint of praise for himself at getting back into the causeway even though he’d been maimed. He told them how he’d yelled for the crew, and run to the bridge, and he repeated as much of his conversation with Wash as he could recall.

“He’d lost it,” he told Sally. “I mean... I haven’t seen him that moonbrained since your wedding.” 

Sherlock sat up slightly, and Sally’s shock grew cold. 

“My what?” Sally asked.

Mal’s mouth fell open mid-sentence. “Your husband, Wash. Hoban Washburne, though if that ain’t up there with naming your kid after a moon, I don’t rightly know...” He dropped off; he could feel the tension settling over the three of them like a heavy cloud of ash. “You’re not married,” he realised.

“No,” Sally answered. 

Mal whistled slowly. “Now somethin’ about that really just ain’t right.”


End file.
